Throughout my life growing up in India, I have seldom come across people who do not appreciate the landscapes that rivers frame. They serve as popular sites for recreation, apart from many other purposes. However, every year monsoonal rains swell up heavily sedimented rivers, wreaking havoc for the people residing nearby. So, when I had the opportunity to conduct fieldwork for my undergraduate research, I, a resident of the Brahmaputra valley, chose the Majuli River island of Assam, India, as a case study to examine the impacts of floods on women. I took photographs to visually capture the issues of riverbank erosion, broken roads, impact of flood on land, and how people dealt with them.
On December 2018, I embarked on my journey to Majuli from the port of Nimatighat in Jorhat district (from which Majuli was carved out as an island district in 2016) of Assam. Majuli was declared the largest river island in the world by the Guinness Book of World Records in September 2016. According to the district Census Handbook of Jorhat, Assam (2011), the island has shrunk from 1255 sq km (1901) to 584 sq km (2011). Sandwiched between the Brahmaputra River in the south and Subansiri (a tributary of the Brahmaputra) in the north, the island has witnessed nature’s force since its inception. Today more than ever, the island endures frequent flooding, riverbank erosion and extreme climate events. 2017 was one of the worst hit years recently, when, according to official sources, 58 villages and nearly 48000 people were affected; 1760 hectares of crop area were damaged and hundreds were rendered homeless. Such statistics are not rare. I found narratives of resilience as well as fatalism in how people and places met these situations.
One of the first ‘geographical tools’ I noticed upon reaching the heart of the island, Kamalabari,
was the Majuli route
map put up by the Majuli District Administration. True to the map’s title, ‘The Island of Peace,’ I
was serenaded by the
calmness and beauty of Majuli.
My exploration of the landscape and how it is used led me to the thousands of stories of survival,
heroism and strength
in the most subtle forms. The normalcy of the everyday routine of the islanders post-disaster was a
testimony to an
adaptability to everything, from the simple to the unbearable.
This site, for example, is of a typically eroded embankment of a riverbank in Majuli. The same wet land, impossible to tread on during peak monsoons is also where people in other seasons dry their freshly-washed clothes. However, it is the affective bond between the people and their land that still discourages them from out-migrating to a safer location despite struggling with the annual deluges.
As a rural economy, Majuli’s diverse occupational structure includes agriculture, boat making, pottery and weaving. However, as agricultural fields become stagnant and potters’ and weavers’ income cripple more than ever due to unexpected flooding, new forms of economy must emerge. Serving as a popular tourist destination, transportation services have become popular sources of earning a livelihood in Majuli. As I traveled over the bumpy and potholed roads in an autorickshaw, I noticed large-scale erosion, brought about by the ravages of floods. The new economy has its own struggles.
Majuli has emerged as the nucleus of Vaishnavite culture in Assam, leading to the establishment of
the holy ‘satras’-
the Vaishnavite centers. The satras have also been sustaining the internationally recognized Indian
classical dance form
‘Sattriya’ and the rich tradition of mask making among many other iconic socio-cultural practices.
However, recurrent
floods have forced these satras to migrate away from the island, leaving behind just 22 out of a
total of 65.
During dry seasons, large numbers of tourists visit these satras during the ‘Raas’ festival, which
is celebrated with
great pomp and grandeur on the island.
These traditional houses, called chang ghar, are built on high stilts and are specific to the indigenous Mishing community. This photograph shows a woman listening to the tales of her grandkids while sitting on top of chang after having lunch. The chang ghar is designed to survive frequent flooding. Although it has cultural significance, its obvious advantage is that water does not gush inside the house during floods since it can be raised or lowered depending on the anticipated water level. According to the UN Office for Disaster Risk Reduction (UNDRR), the Mishing community seeks to expand and evolve its indigenous architectural model to combat climate change.
The chang ghar is built not only for the human population but also for their livestock. This photo shows the marshy peats beneath the chang where the livestock (especially pigs) are usually reared. This shady area is also used as a granary during winters.
During times of inundation, livestock are carried away by their owners to safer highlands or taken
with them to relief camps.
Such camps are necessary, and often, either primary schools are converted into them or communities
build makeshift camps. However, the resultant unhygienic environment of the relief camps where
humans and animals live together in close quarters results in discomfort and health problems.
Inadequate sanitation, disrupted drinking water supplies, outbreaks of mosquito-borne diseases like
malaria and dengue create miserable conditions within the camps. Numbers of people prefer to stay in
place, living with the high waters rather than moving to the camps.
This photo captures the smiling faces of the kids of the island as they pose for me as a break from playing around on the wetland soils. The kids, especially those residing on the fringes of the island, are deprived of yearlong schooling and adequate nutrition. However, the fact that all five of them, like many others in the locality, ‘naturally acquired’ the skill of swimming, underscores their tales of valiant effort to cope with the floods.
The invisible violence that annual floods impose on the everyday lives of the flood victims is often overlooked by agencies and political authorities. As the river consumes the house from beneath, it not only drowns the houses but also the economy and health of the inhabitants. In Majuli and Ujoni Majuli blocks, the number of health centers per 10 sq. km is only 0.30 and 0.32 respectively. In an area where transportation is already difficult, with severe flooding, access to healthcare facilities due to emergencies is a faraway dream. Likewise, running household errands while drenched in rain with a quarter of the body submerged underwater makes a woman even more susceptible to various skin diseases and infections.
This photo captures a winter morning. The fallen logs and twigs in the background are used by the women of the households to prepare meals for their families. During floods, people struggle to collect logs trapped inside floodwater. As flood water recedes, the women collect and store the wood atop changs to use during an emergency.
This photograph bears testimony to the mode of survival during frequent flooding within the island. The same boats that are abandoned during the dry seasons become crucial during monsoons to transport people, livestock and property to the relief camps. They are even used for the most routine tasks like defecating, by rowing the boat to a distant place. Households depend on the boats anchored in their backyard since automobiles get stranded in floods. Makeshift banana rafts are also used to wade through floodwaters by those who cannot afford the wooded boats.
Weaving is an important occupation in the district of Majuli, and the handwoven fabrics called
‘Mirizim’ or ‘Endi’ are renowned worldwide. The District Census Handbook of Jorhat (2011) reveals
that a larger share of marginal workers (employed for less than six months in a year) are women,
primarily engaged in cultivation or/and weaving. As the first drop of monsoonal rain reaches the
island, weavers pack their handlooms up and shift them to a drier platform.
The weaver photographed here is from Batiamari village. She told me that floods dampen and rot the
wooden looms leading to their malfunctioning, and so, threatening her sales. She tries to make the
best of the ‘safer’ seasons to weave the finest fabrics.
With an average annual rainfall of 215 cm, Majuli has a sub-tropical monsoon climate. The monsoonal
climate exerts a direct influence on agricultural activities, be it rice and vegetable cultivation
or fishing. The photo depicts a rural household extracting sugarcane juice, boiling and solidifying
it to produce jaggery to sell in the local markets.
However, during monsoons, almost every agricultural activity stagnates and the economy is paralyzed.
As an alternative to traditional practices, flood resistant crops like red rice are now being sown.
In 2017, floating farms were instituted on boats to plant crops in the wake of floods. Vegetables
are also grown on rafts, to help combat food insecurity. These practices are however not sustainable
for the long term as the makeshift rafts rot after floating on water for some days.
Floods, or any disaster for that matter, do not just ruin furniture or tarnish walls and floors of
the houses but also threaten the security of the lives and livelihoods of the population. The state
government has undertaken structural measures and installs porcupines, geo banks, builds and
rebuilds embankments every year to curb erosion and its impact on the lives of the people.
Nevertheless, as floods recede, the river leaves behind the sediment load and a changed landscape,
but also psychological harms, and these too should be of concern to the government.
However, between the seasons of chaotic crises and mundane lives lie a season of attachment to the
ancestral lands. Official statistical reports of Majuli indicate increasing population density and
internal migration within the island. Such patterns suggest the emotional ties attached to a place
that is based upon memories or pride of ownership or what Yi Fu Tuan called ‘topophilia’. In fact,
‘topophilia’ or ‘topophobia’ is not just a response to a place but actively produces/un-produces
places for people. Howsoever, the question remains whether it is affect or is it fatalism that holds
them back from out-migrating to safer lands, or maybe a combination of both?